Waste Land
by quintilis
Summary: Lieutenant Zala pays a visit to the lonely sister of a dear friend. April is indeed the cruelest month.


The housekeeper seated him on a hard sofa in what appeared to be the parlor. The room was drenched in early morning sunlight, but the day was cold and the bare branches of the pear tree blew against the window with a repeated clacking sound. Athrun scanned the room restlessly, searching for any photo frames placed on side tables or any portraits hanging above the mantel, for a single welcoming sign that this was a living house and not a mausoleum. There were none, no personal touches to either the parlor or the foyer through which he had entered—only the softly-painted ivory walls and a vase of magnolia and pink camellia on the center table, petals beginning to wilt at the edges.

The minutes dragged on without event, punctuated only by the ceaseless rhythm of the pear branches, _tap tap tap_. A ball of misgiving grew in him, icy and hard to swallow. Perhaps he was wrong in asking to speak to the sister. Perhaps he should have formally relayed the news to the family's legal advisor and expected the matter to continue without his participation. And yet…the sister was the next-of-kin, and he had explicit orders to take care of the task during his shore leave.

Besides, Kira had always spoken impossibly well of her. Their entire squad had heard stories of the twins' childhood together, knew of the long letters they exchanged while he was in the service, of her likes and dislikes and fears and passions. It was only fair to speak to her in person, to grant her this one kindness in a greatly unkind world.

The constant headache Athrun had been experiencing the past few weeks abruptly spiked in intensity from a dull soreness to sharp pounding behind his forehead. But there was no calming the pain that hammered at his skull, just as there was no predicting the sudden arrival of Cagalli Yula Athha at the entrance to the parlor.

Athrun rose to his feet but Cagalli seemed to ignore him completely, not even glancing in his direction as she moved carefully to the hard-backed chair across from him. Even after she sat, she stared blankly at an area beyond his shoulder and said nothing.

Athrun cleared his throat and tried to speak, but could barely manage a greeting. He didn't know how to begin with what he had been sent out here to say. It was a grave matter under usual circumstances but Cagalli appeared wholly unprepared to cope with news that would change her life—for the second time in only as many months. She was thin, oversized cream sweater draped over narrow shoulders, hair tied back in a low, short ponytail, face pale and drawn. She looked like stepping on cracked ice, like a piece of glass crashing to the floor, brittle and sharp to the touch.

When the silence finally broke, it was her voice—stronger than he expected, though still strained. "Can you tell me what the weather is like today, Lieutenant Zala?"

It was a strange question, one that she could easily answer for herself, but he had no other way to start the conversation. Obligingly, he took another look outside the window. "It is a cold day, but very sunny. Not a warm light like summer, more like a colorless sunshine that just brightens everything. Can you hear the wind?"

"Yes. Orb has been experiencing an unusually long winter," Cagalli replied monotonously.

"If winter comes, can spring be far behind?" Athrun countered, before he remembered exactly why he had come to the Athha mansion on such a dreadful day, in civilian clothes and carrying a leaden burden in his breast pocket. The commencement of her spring was yet far off. He opened his mouth, finally gathering the courage to break the news. He had the phrasing decided in his mind, a slight variation on the regulation dialogue. _You may have guessed why I am visiting you today. I am Athrun Zala of Orb's 26_ _th_ _Mobile Group, here under Regulation 350 of the Code of Conduct. It is with deepest sympathy that I inform you of…_

But a maid briskly entered the parlor with a tray, cutting off the first words of his prepared speech with a crisp, "Tea is served, Miss Athha." She set out the contents of the tray on the center table and poured the tea into two porcelain cups while Cagalli dropped her gaze to the rug.

"Milk and sugar?" the maid asked Athrun, the sugar spoon poised over the bowl.

"None, thank you," he answered, reaching for his cup and saucer.

She placed the second cup in Cagalli's hands and bent to whisper into her ear, though Athrun could still hear her clearly. "The teapot is straight ahead of you, sugar to the left, and milk to the right. Your saucer and spoon are in front of the teapot."

Cagalli nodded, giving the maid permission to leave. She reached forward, patting her left hand on the table several times before she grasped the creamer. She made the same searching motion to locate the sugar bowl.

With a jolt, Athrun realized that she was blind.

It should have been evident from the instant he saw her. The cautious way she walked across the room, as if she knew the layout of the room but still hoped not to trip over unforeseen hazards; the seemingly-absurd question about the weather; how she stared above his shoulder but never directly at his face. She couldn't _see_ his face. Presumably she couldn't see anything.

How could it be, in all his stories and praise, in all the fond memories recounted from his bunk at night, in all the letters read emotionally aloud, Kira had never told him that sister was blind? Various thoughts surfaced in Athrun's mind—to which disease had she lost her sight? Was it not possible to have her vision medically restored?—but at the forefront was the realization that this Cagalli must have an extraordinary personality if her disability never even factored into Kira's descriptions of her.

"I assume your visit is with some purpose, Lieutenant Zala." Her voice, even thinner than before, tore him out of his confused reverie.

The revelation of her condition had driven the prepared speech from Athrun's memory completely. All he could focus on at that instant was the trembling of her small hand, which caused her cup to clatter against the saucer. And the fact that he was about to tell this nineteen-year-old girl, who was blind, who had lost her father just a month and a half prior, that her only brother had been killed in action.

"Three weeks ago you were notified that Kira was missing, following a skirmish near Cape Town. I am sorry to say that two days ago we located his remains."

Cagalli appeared to wilt before him, shoulders dropping and curving inward. "What do you mean by remains?" she whispered to the floor.

"His mobile suit and helmet were recovered from the ocean floor. By protocol, that evidence and a month-long history of MIA is enough to issue a death declaration."

"But you didn't find a body, right?" she pressed shakily. "So…so he could be anywhere. How could anyone know?"

Athrun shifted, directing his gaze uncomfortably toward the hall, wishing to be anyplace else. "I do not wish to give you false hope, Miss Athha. It has been a month since that day. There are no islands in the area which can host any survivors."

She shook her head several times, pressing the heel of her palm against her temple. "But you must be mistaken. You see, I've already had mine—my tragedy. My father was assassinated on the steps of Parliament only this past January." Her cup rattled louder and louder against the saucer, punctuating her words with a bizarre staccato. "That is how it is, right? That's what they say…everyone suffers one great tragedy in their youth. That's supposed to be it. So, I've already had mine."

"This world does not limit itself to only one unkindness," Athrun said lowly, but his words trailed off as Cagalli began to cry. After a pause the sole sounds in the room were her small sobs, muffled slightly by the back of her frail hand, for even the pear tree had stopped blowing against the window.

The longer he waited for an appropriate time to exit, the more uncomfortable Athrun felt. He had been there when Kira had disappeared—not on there on the field, but there listening to the CIC transmissions from his suffocating bed in the sick bay—had led the endless fruitless search-and-rescue missions, had experienced his hope dwindle day by day as the sun continued to rise and set over a world that suddenly lacked his closest friend. But Cagalli hadn't had the privilege of watching the situation unfold. She had just been told in no uncertain terms of her brother's fate. It must have been an abrupt and desolate end to whichever shards of hopeful longing had remained.

He felt some emotion pushing him to somehow help her. It was obligation, or maybe its ugly sibling, pity. She had no one.

"Would you like to take a walk?" Athrun asked, already out of his seat and in front of her. He stood there for a few seconds, hand outstretched in invitation, before he remembered that she couldn't see him. He felt immensely stupid.

She frowned, head tilted to face the floor. "I don't usually leave the house on foot."

"Let's take a drive, then. It will clear your head." He knelt to take the now-cool teacup from her grasp. His fingers lingered for the briefest moment on the inside of her pale wrist. "Please. Please let me help you."

She bit her lip, the pink skin going white at the pressure. Suddenly her hands came up to his face. Athrun resisted the instinct to recoil. Her cool fingers ghosted over his features, his forehead, cheekbones, jaw, mouth, up the bridge of his nose.

Cagalli nodded. "A drive."

Athrun wondered what she had learned from mapping his face.

* * *

They stopped at a small train station a half hour from the Athha manor. Cagalli had asked to go there, though Athrun couldn't imagine why. There weren't any passenger trains due for the next hour, only a freight train that the automated announcement system stated would pass through in fifteen minutes. They were alone.

"Lieutenant Zala, do you think this war will ever end?"

Cagalli stood stock-still in the center of the platform, but Athrun was leaning on a bench farther from the tracks. He couldn't see her face.

He thought about her question. It was one he hadn't expected. "When the war started, I was certain it would be resolved within months. But now that it's approaching its fifth year…I'm not sure I know the answer anymore."

"I don't know either. I am allowed to know very little," Cagalli whispered. "I am not fit to lead. I have been cursed since birth, with this blindness. I can't see the future. I can't even see you, here with me."

There was a train whistle from far away.

"This ugly war has taken both my father and brother. My father sheltered Orb as long as he could. If we hadn't taken arms, our nation would have burned. He was always thinking of our people. Kira hated fighting more than anyone. But he felt that he had to fight because he had the power to change things. Now they are both dead. Tell me, Lieutenant. Where is the justice?"

"Miss Athha, who ever said this world was just?" he responded bitterly.

The train whistle blew again, much closer.

Cagalli swayed on her feet. "I have loved, purely and wholly. But in exchange, loneliness and despair has now filled my heart. It turns out that's the nature of this world. It's cruel. It births misery."

The train was upon them. Its force caused the platform to vibrate. The whistle filled Athrun's ears with a violent sound.

Cagalli took one shaky step forward. Then hurriedly, a steadier step.

The realization of what she was about to do hit Athrun like a mortar shell.

He jumped after her. _It's too late_ , he thought, she was too fast, she had already crossed the yellow line, her left foot was pushing off the platform. The train was an explosion barreling toward her.

His open hand connected with her forearm. _It's not too late._

He jerked her away from the tracks so sharply they both fell backward onto the solid concrete of the platform. The train passed by with a thunderous roar.

Athrun laid there motionless for a few long moments, heart pounding, ears ringing, body reeling from the blunt pain in his tailbone. Cagalli had collapsed on top of him, her shoulder blades cutting into his sides. Her hair had come loose of its tie.

Athrun sat up, causing Cagalli to slide off. She stood quickly and spun on her heel to run away, but he grabbed her wrist. She froze mid-step.

"Just what kind of game do you think we're playing here?" Athrun demanded. His grip tightened. Cagalli flinched.

The cold wind blew past them, lifting her coat and the ends of her hair. Her pulse hammered erratically against his skin.

"Why did you stop me? You said that you would help me. There is nothing left for me anymore."

"What difference can you make if you're dead?!" Athrun pulled Cagalli backward. She stumbled, falling onto her knees. "You think your suffering is insurmountable? You think you're the only one that's ever felt the way you do?" He squeezed her wrist tighter. "I lost my mother on Junius Seven. It was only an agricultural colony—there's your injustice. When I was seventeen, I was maimed by my own father for daring to question the beliefs he had indoctrinated in me. You're alone? I have no one anymore either. I don't even have a home to return to."

For the first time since they arrived at this desolate train station, Cagalli turned to him. "But what am I supposed to do now?" Her gaze was focused too low, she was speaking to his chest. "I don't understand why I'm here."

Athrun looked into her eyes, bright amber under the winter sunlight, wet from the tears painting her cheeks. He grasped her shoulders. "Cagalli. Listen to me. Stop running. The hardest battle is to live."

Enveloping them was the extreme stillness of winter. There was no birdsong, no hum of insects, no sound from the main road. Only them, in that wide open space, under a vividly blue sky.

Cagalli's body began to shake with muted sobs. Athrun regarded her sadly. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around her small body.

"Lieutenant, help me. Please help me," Cagalli breathed out. Her hands clasped the front of his coat, her face was hot and wet where it pressed into the crook of his neck.

Athrun stroked her hair rhythmically. Next to them, there was a small crack in the concrete platform. From it, the young bud of a hardy wildflower was struggling to emerge. "My name is Athrun. I'll help you, Cagalli."


End file.
